Tomorrow
by ch19777
Summary: Post-3x24 / future fic. "By slipping that note into his hand the last time she visited him, she insinuated that it's up to him to make the next move. Now he only has to decide if he is brave enough."


**Title:** Tomorrow

**Characters:** Jane, Lisbon

**Genre:** Romance

**Prompts: **"If you wait to do everything until you're sure it's right, you'll probably not do much of anything." (by tromana in the Paint It Red Ficathon); Time (#2 in prompt table A in the mentalistprompt community on LJ)

**Spoilers:** allusions to the season 3 finale

* * *

><p><strong>4:36 p.m.<strong>

The piece of paper feels good in Jane's hand. The number on it is already stored in his cell phone for a while now, yet he can't bring himself to throw it away. Instead, he gets it out of his pocket again and again just to look at it. To gently stroke it with his fingertips.

To think of her.

**4:41 p.m.**

He likes her handwriting; it suits her. It appears strong-willed, forceful. Straightforward, just like she is herself. It's a characteristic of her that he always appreciated, but now it rather scares him. By slipping that note into his hand the last time she visited him, she insinuated that it's up to him to make the next move. Now he only has to decide if he is brave enough.

Theoretically, this should be easy. But then again, theoretically it also shouldn't bother him in the slightest to live with the fact that he took his nemesis' life. Theoretically, he shouldn't wake up drenched in sweat from a recurrent, new nightmare that replaces the one he had in all those years before. He brushes the thought aside; that charlatan of a prison psychiatrist would have a field day with this.

**5:07 p.m.**

He recalls the days, weeks, months he waited for her, alone in his cell. Eager to explain himself, his actions to her, even though he knew full well that words would never suffice. Many times he tried to call her only to be fobbed off by her automated voice mail, until he was one day informed that the number he had dialed was not in service anymore. Nevertheless he kept calling, full of irrational hope that some day she would pick up again. He never dared calling her at work; that felt like crossing a line. And what would he have told his other former colleagues if one of them had answered the phone? Or, more frightening, what would they have had to say to him?

As the months went by, he almost lost hope to ever see her again. At least not while he was in prison, condemned to wait for her to make the choices for their future. But there was something about her deep sadness on the day of his sentencing – her stoic expression fooling everyone but him – which he clung to. There was the fact that she attended his trial at all, never making eye contact with him, but always in attendance. And when the court conceded extenuating circumstances to him – something he wasn't sure he even deserved – her relief was almost palpable. She cared, always had. She just needed time before she was ready to face him again.

A lot of time.

Thirteen months and twelve days, to be precise.

But then she came almost weekly.

They finally talked. Awkwardly and about tentative, trivial things at first, but then they got bolder. Step by step, they conquered the deep gulf that had formed between them because of his criminal act. At last, she dared asking him about that fateful day, about the circumstances that led to it and the consequences it entailed.

He told her everything.

Unexpurgated.

With ruthless candor.

The whole truth.

She listened, argued with him. He was taken aback when he discovered that she blamed herself for his deeds. Naturally he teased her about it – old habits die hard – but secretly vowed to make this mess up to her after his release from prison.

But now, finally a free man again, he isn't even able to do something as simple as call her.

**5:53 p.m.**

The note feels smooth from the many times he touched it. Soon the numbers won't be readable anymore, will the paper get dissolved by the perspiration of his palms. He wonders what exactly she expects from him. What she thinks, feels.

Does she want the same as him?

Intimacy?

Happiness?

Love?

Their minds.

Their hands.

Their lips.

Their bodies.

Together?

Maybe she only gave him her new number to be able to stay in contact after his release. Just wants to rekindle their former acquaintance, with a pinch more of sincerity but otherwise the same old offbeat friendship they shared before. Deep down he can't help thinking that he doesn't deserve more, or even that she is better off if he just goes away and discards her number.

But that's obviously not what _she_ has in mind.

**6:41 p.m.**

He toys with the idea to text her a carefully thought-out, innocuous message to minimize the danger of saying something stupid and ruining his – maybe only – chance to get his life back together again. Just a heads-up that he's out of prison – which she actually is already aware of – and the name of the hotel he's currently staying at.

But, knowing her, she'd probably simply ignore such coward behavior.

**7:22 p.m.**

Taking his cell phone from the nightstand he looks up her number, just as he did about twenty times before within the five hours of his newly gained freedom. He stares at the call button, considers what he could say when she answers.

"Hi, it's Jane. I just call to say hello..."

No, that sounds ridiculous.

"Lisbon? Hi. How are you?"

Not exactly brilliant either.

And while he still ponders, he loses courage and frustratedly shuts off his phone.

He tells himself that he'll try again later. When she didn't just come home and probably isn't in the mood for a talk. When he's more at ease, more prepared, yet he never seems to achieve a mental state like this. Nevertheless, he knows that he can't afford to lose too much time; she won't wait for him forever.

**8:01 p.m.**

Again he wonders what she even likes about him.

And how much she likes it.

And especially, why.

She knows what he did. What he thinks. That he's still struggling to come to terms with his past. She's the only one whom he told that Red John being dead by his hands is neither as satisfactory nor as easy as he expected it to be. Unlike that useless shrink, she didn't even have to try hard to tickle that information out of him. And still, despite all of this, she surprises him by looking past his many faults and sticking with him. And more than that, she makes him believe in a future that he already gave up on years ago.

It suddenly dawns on him that part of his reason to tell her all those horrible things was to dissuade her from investing hope in him. He deemed himself unworthy of her attention, beyond redemption even. Frankly, he still isn't quite over this kind of self-evaluation, even though he senses that she is the one who might be able to save him after all. Instead of getting angry with him – as he expected, maybe even hoped – she remained matter-of-fact. She didn't twit. She argued rationally. She took him seriously.

After all those years they've know each other, she suddenly became the center of his undivided attention.

**8:52 p.m.**

And now he misses her, can't stop thinking of her. Wants to see her, preferably every day. Making a plunge from harmless banter to heart-felt confessions of love seems impossible to him now though. Maybe their roles of irritated boss and reckless consultant are simply too ingrained after all those years?

They toyed with each other, observed each other. Looked out for each other, kept their distance at times until one of them – usually her – caved in. More and more, a silent agreement formed between them, a natural devotion simply nurtured by the fact of being in each other's lives.

Should he really risk this just regained relationship for the vague promise of a more intimate one?

**9:17 p.m.**

Again he studies the washed-out digits, eyes his phone. It is within touching distance. He is surprised how late it already is. Instead of dialing her number, he wonders what she is doing in this moment.

Does she watch TV? Maybe the same movie that he turned on to feel less lonely?

Does she think of him?

Is she wondering why he didn't call her first thing after being released? As he planned to. As he should have.

Is she already in bed? Alone?

He flinches.

**10:09 p.m.**

They never touched when she visited him in prison. Not even a handshake, never mind a hug. That's probably why the gesture of handing him the note with her phone number, the contact of his palm with her fingertips, felt so irrationally intimate. Even though a week passed since, her touch still lingers. It fills his mind with thoughts that confuse and incite him at the same time, with wishes that he denied himself ever since he first met her.

How would it feel to caress her?

He conjures up the memory of her scent, the smell of freshly washed hair and a subtle hint of perfume. He imagines her smile, the few precious times it reached her eyes when she talked to him in prison. He loves when her smile is directed at him, when she makes no secret of the fact that she likes him. Sometimes she looks at him as if the two of them share something special that the rest of the world will never understand.

**10:18 p.m.**

The desire to see her again is overwhelming now. No matter what, he has to regain her smile. That feeling to be important to her. The faith that his future will be a bright one.

He needs to call her. Needs to confess what he feels for her. Tell her that he's truly, genuinely sorry for everything he put her through in the past. Promise her that he'll never hurt her again.

His thumb hovers over the call button.

Hesitates.

What if...?

He'll do it tomorrow.

ღ _**The End**_


End file.
